Since Feeling Is First
by sleepysundays
Summary: After the war, everyone is slowly learning to relax and rebuild. But Remus and Hermione, the only two occupants of Grimauld Place, have wounds that will not heal. Can they help each other and allow themselves to be helped, or will their traumas triumph?


Notes: I am saddened and appalled at the lack of Remus fic in the HP fandom, and even more, at how most of the ones that do exist are either Remus/Sirius slash or threesomes. I am also entirely too snobbish about my reading material and wish desperately that more people would understand the importance of proofreading. This is the third time I've attempted writing fic of my own, and the first time I've felt the desire to share it--before now it's always been just for my own personal entertainment. I usually favor Marauders-era Remus/OC, so this is a huge stretch for me, being both a different era (post-Hogwarts) and a different pairing (Remus/Hermione), but I find the fit of their personalities intriguing and I think they're the best people to pull off the new idea I have. I'm aware of the age difference and I don't intend to play with time to make it more acceptable, nor do I intend to turn Hermione into a sex goddess or have anyone calling Her 'Mione or make Remus entirely shy and awkward. I want to keep everything as in character and believable as possible, except of course that Remus has survived the war and Ron and Hermione do not live happily ever after and make babies together. I like my fic smutty and humorous, so be prepared for a fair amount of filth and nothing too dark, though it is just after the war and that's the main focus of the story so there will be angst. I don't write or (as a general rule) read slash, but be prepared for the possibility of light femmeslash in later chapters. I anticipate twenty-six chapters, but I really have no idea where the story is actually going. The pleasure's in the journey and all that. I think that's all you need to know and I promise I won't write these rambling notes for every chapter, so now, fic.

Disclaimer: If I owned any of this I wouldn't have to be worried about going back to school. I'm making no money, I just appreciate and occasionally play. Story title from an e.e. cummings poem, so for good measure I guess I don't own that either.

Chapter 1

She threw another book. This was bordering on obscene--to Hermione Granger, books were sacred property. For her first to have lost one, and now to be flinging the rest of her considerable collection across the room, one after another, was inexcusable, really. When her mind had calmed and her emotions were no longer in such riotous disarray, she would be ashamed; she would look on her current tantrum as a failure. As a loss of control. Failure was not something she had much experience with and lately, control was the only thing keeping her world together, but at the moment all she wanted was to feel the familiar weight of _Hogwarts: A History_ in her hands. It was so bloody stupid, so infuriatingly careless--it wasn't even a book she needed; she hadn't opened it in weeks. But tonight, she'd been feeling weighed down by her memories and in need of some comfort, and it had always been her form of a security blanket. She always kept it in the same place; it hadn't been moved since she'd come to live here after graduation and now ... it was gone. No, not gone. Misplaced. The infallible Hermione Granger had slipped up and created this minuscule hairline crack in the ordered perfection of her world.

"You're being ridiculous," she told herself, in what was meant to be a firm, scolding voice. The tone was slightly ruined by her breathlessness (honestly, those books weren't that heavy), but it did the trick of snapping her out of her fury, just as suddenly as the missing book had pushed her into it. She sank down to the floor, dropped her head to her knees and wrapped her arms around herself.

It was true; she was being ridiculous. It was only a book. And it couldn't have simply disappeared; it had to be somewhere in the house. Who else even cared about _Hogwarts: A History_? Who else had even read it? No one. Her years of friendship with Harry and Ron, and indeed, her knowledge of the rest of her schoolmates, had convinced Hermione that she was the only person in the world who had ever bothered to crack open its cover. She could think of no one she knew who would want to take it, and certainly no one who would keep it and not return it. Besides, they would ask. Everyone knew perfectly well how she felt about her books.

"What does it matter, anyway?" she asked herself irritably, raising her head and pushing the hair away from her face. It was past time to give up such childish comforts; she had made a concerted effort to think only of the present in every other aspect of her life. Her recent tantrum was proof that holding onto the past, even in such a small way, would do her no good at all. Merlin knew, she had enough to worry about without adding more. But she did need comfort tonight; there was no denying that. She had never felt comfortable adopting Ron's method of finding it in a bottle, nor Ginny's method of finding it in her family--Hermione had always been more like Hary, finding it in fighting until she collapsed. Well, sitting on the floor, in the midst of a mess of books with her arms wrapped around her knees, certainly counted as collapsing, as far as she was concerned.

She rose slowly, ignoring the mess her small library had become. She would deal with cleanup later; right now she didn't even want to think about books anymore. Slipping from the room, her stockinged feet making no noise on the thick carpet, she went in search of human company.

*

Remus was exhausted. He sat slumped in an armchair, a cooling cup of coffee on the table beside him. The fire reached out to caress the lines of his face with its warmth, but his thoughts were far away. It was always during these endless, quiet evenings that he thought of her most, not that he ever really stopped remembering. It was his self-inflicted punishment for failure, reliving that night again and again. Feeling the fear, the uncertainty; thinking of Tonks and of Sirius and James and Lily, the people who had mattered most. Now, all that mattered was survival, destruction and protection. He must protect his wife. But no, she could protect herself. He must fight, for himself and for his family, yes, but for the wizarding world as well. He could not be selfish, not this time.

How could a person be so alive and in motion one minute, he wondered for the billionth time at least, and so still and lifeless the next? He remembered vividly the moment he had realized; the crushing weight of understanding, the slicing knife of regret. The cry ripped from his throat. And later, when it was all over and his brain was too numbed to even understand what the outcome had been, all the other still forms lined up with her. She had become just another face in a sea of many. The names would never stop their endless beating in his head, and he would never stop hating himself for the fact that her name would always be the loudest and clearest among them. As if his sorrow was any more significant than anyone else's. As if his pain overshadowed all of theirs--Molly's grief over the loss of a child, Harry's grief over the loss of a second chance at a family, George's grief over the loss of a best friend and brother. But wasn't his pain greater? Hadn't he lost it all? Wife, best friends, brothers? His own life and chance at a career? What was left to him now?

He shook his head fiercely, straightening in his chair and reaching for his coffee. This nightly ritual of self-pity and self-loathing was taking its toll and nothing good ever came from it. Nothing good ever could, because he wouldn't let it. What right did he have to good things? What right did he even have to this house, where he had been allowed to hide from the world for the past year and a half? Well, the world with the exception of Hermione Granger, who had also been given refuge here. How Mrs. Black would howl, a werewolf and a Mudblood taking up residence beneath her precious roof. He almost smiled then, amused as always by the thought of Sirius's raving lunatic of a mother. All those times Tonks had incited her rage by--

But no, better not to think of that. Better to think instead of his housemate, the witch who was slowly but steadily changing things in the wizarding world, changing things for creatures like himself. Not that he had taken advantage of any of the changes; he was still unable to overcome the werewolf prejudice he had encountered previously, the prejudice now held most strongly against him by himself. But he always cheered her on, and was very glad of her presence in his life, even if only on the outskirts. She never gave in, never stopped trying. He knew she was as deeply affected by the events of the recent past as he was, as they all were, and maybe even more than most due to her close involvement with Harry, but she channeled her pain into productivity for others. He envied and admired her, and was grateful to have been able to witness her transformation from uncertain schoolgirl to confident woman.

He smiled genuinely as he thought of her in the kitchen, or bent over her books, or talking animatedly about her latest project ... a more confident woman she may have become, but she hadn't lost the features that had always plagued her as a girl. Her teeth had been shrunk to a more normal size years ago, but her hair remained as bushy and unmanageable as it had always been. She always had a horrible time of it when her presence was required at formal engagements, because she had little patience for the hours it took to smooth and straighten it. She was a little taller, a little more filled out, but still carried herself as someone who had worn a bag filled with heavy books slung on her back for years, which was exactly the case. And her love of books hadn't diminished a bit--if anything, it had grown. She could usually be spotted not by her face, but by the books she perpetually read as she walked. How she managed to accomplish this feat without falling head over heels, Remus could not imagine.

A small noise from the doorway caught his attention, and as though his thoughts had conjured her, he saw her standing there. She was leaning against the doorframe, quietly watching him, waiting for him to be the first to speak, as was her custom. Remus knew that she considered herself a burden to him, an unwanted presence in his otherwise uninhabited sanctuary. It had been Harry's idea to bring the two together; not with any particular thoughts of compatibility, but simply because they both needed the peace and privacy the house provided. It belonged to Harry, now that Sirius was gone (another train of thought Remus had to force himself away from), but Harry had no use for it now. He didn't want to start his family in a place that could never feel truly safe and secure, and he knew that Ginny would only be happy if she could be near her family. When things had begun to calm down again and everyone else was beginning the rebuilding process, Harry had seen the way Remus and Hermione both floated aimlessly, too deep in their own pain and self-imposed alienations to make any kind of peace for themselves. Grimauld Place had seemed the perfect solution; a place where they could rest and recover, gathering themselves for the task of learning how to live again. And to any outsider it would appear that the plan was succeeding beautifully.

With a violent effort, he drew himself back to the present, and raising his hand, beckoned Hermione into the room.

*

Nights like these were rare, Hermione and Remus both ordinarily preferring the privacy of their own rooms and thoughts, but they had both come to enjoy them when they occurred. A mutual need for comfort, a silent recognition that they were not so different in their struggles. They would meet in the library, sometimes to talk, sometimes just to read in companionable silence, blazing fire and hot coffee warming and relaxing their bodies, the smell and feel of books soothing their souls. That night, Remus sensed that talking was what Hermione needed and he knew she wouldn't be the one to start, so at last he broke the silence, paying close attention to her body language and allowing her to set the tone and pace of the conversation.

"Trouble sleeping?" he asked, offering her a mug of coffee and moving to stoke the fire.

Hermione accepted the coffee and sank back with a sigh, letting some of the tension melt out of her. "You could say that," she replied, wrinkling her brow in annoyance at her former actions. "I thought I would try calming my mind with a bit of reading from my own collection, but I couldn't find the book I wanted ..." She let her voice trail off, not wanting to tell him of her tantrum.

He noticed the slight flush of her cheeks and the way she turned her head away, and was instantly curious. Very few things caused Hermione to become uncomfortable; he could only recall a handful of times he'd seen it happen in all the years he'd known her. She was often insecure about her abilities and usefulness, but rarely embarrassed.

"Which book were you looking for?" he asked.

"_Hogwarts: A History_," she said, still not quite looking at him.

He gave the slightest snort. "Of course; as if I even had to ask. And you couldn't find it? You mean to say you don't keep it locked away in its own special display case?"

She did look at him then, glare in place. "Very amusing," she said drily. "Have you been taking lessons? No, I do not keep it in its own case. I keep it in a specific place on the shelf with all my other books, and now it isn't there."

He didn't miss the overbrightness of her eyes or the renewed tension in her shoulders--this was genuinely upsetting her. "Where have you looked?" he asked gently, wanting to soothe her. "Maybe someone borrowed it. Maybe you just misplaced it."

"I do not misplace things," she said, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice. At his worried look, she softened slightly. "Sorry, I'm just ... it's been a hard few days and I ... when I couldn't find it, you know ..."

He nodded, just as if her nervous rambling made sense.

She took a deep breath, forced herself to stop fidgeting and finally looked at him. "My room is a mess," she said abruptly. "When I couldn't find the book, I started searching, and the longer I searched without finding it, the angrier I became. I ... threw books everywhere. I may have harmed some of them. It was silly, ridiculous. And I still haven't found it, so ..." She raised her hands and then lowered them, a sign of defeat.

For a few seconds, Remus just looked at her. He tried to imagine it--Hermione Granger, the epitome of cool and collected, all business all the time, having a tantrum over a lost book. Flinging all the other books across the room to strike the wall and fall to the carpet, unmindful of the damage she was doing to her most precious possessions. The way her eyes would have been blazing, her breathing harsh, and all over _Hogwarts: A History_. It was so ludicrous, and yet so very Hermione. She had never cracked over the war; hunting Horcruxes and facing Voldemort and being on the run with two boys who were neither as clever nor as resourceful as herself; but let her lose one book and all hell broke loose.

He knew he shouldn't laugh. She didn't regard it as something funny, she had been embarrassed to tell him about it at all. She would be angry with him if he laughed. Remus understood her perhaps better than most, having spent so much time in her company of late, and he understood that this was her idea of failure. She had lost control and then admitted it to someone else, not something that warranted laughter. But he couldn't help it. The image was just too much.

Hermione's eyes narrowed when his chuckles began. Her hands balled into fists when the chuckles became quiet laughter, and she made to rise when the quiet laughter became all-out guffaws. This was not what she had expected. From anyone else, yes; Harry or Ron or maybe even Ginny, but not from Remus. She had expected him, of all people, to understand. And then, slowly, as she watched him laughing, she began to smile herself. It had been funny, in a way. Hadn't she even thought, while she sat in her room, how ridiculous she was being? He was right; she probably had misplaced the book. She would find it when she wasn't looking for it, in the most obvious place, overlooked in her original frenzy.

Her muscles had relaxed again as she joined Remus in laughter, her agitation replaced by amusement. By the time they had gotten themselves under control again, they were both feeling lighter and happier; dark thoughts and worries forgotten for the time being. Remus, still firm in his belief that chocolate, rather than laughter, was the best medicine, produced two bars of Honeydukes' finest and they passed a pleasant few minutes devouring it with light conversation. When at last they rose for bed, Remus paused to let Hermione leave first, as was his custom, and impulsively reached out to brush a hand over her hair as she passed. No thought went into the action, only comfort, but they both felt a tingle pass between them. Neither mentioned it as they said their good-nights--after all, it was probably just a lingering effect from the laughter and chocolate.


End file.
